


Young Kings of Lucis

by ohmyfae



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: F/M, M/M, Rating May Change, Roadtrip Shenanigans, Romantic entanglements, Trans Regis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-20 18:53:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10668720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyfae/pseuds/ohmyfae
Summary: Prince Regis and his entourage are due to travel to Accordo, taking out Niflheim's military bases on the way.At fifteen, Cor Leonis is desperate for a fight. Cid and Weskham are pleased just to get a chance to defend their country. Regis has everything to prove, and Clarus? Clarus Amicitia is a hot mess in the making.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (This is technically set in the Dads of the Year AU, but doesn't necessarily include any of these guys becoming dads, so...)

The attic apartment above the Night Out Cafe in Insomnia’s red light district was not built to be lived in. There was no running water, no central air, the windows never closed properly, and in the summer, squirrels had a habit of nesting in the walls. Sometimes, the more inebriated clients of the establishment would try tugging at the trap door, which had to be secured with an iron bar just in case. There was a yellowing mattress of dubious origins pushed in a corner, a black leather bag under the window, and red good luck charms dangled from the rafters like a forest of moss. 

The floor of the attic shook out dust as fifteen-year-old Cor Leonis stamped and lunged in the dark.

A harsh tapping sound rang through the room, and Cor stopped, wiping sweat from his eyes. 

“Darlin, we love you,” shouted a muffled voice from below, “but we can’t hear ourselves _think_ down here!”

Cor knelt on the floor, and spoke through a hole in the wood. “How’m I supposed to keep you ladies _safe_ if I can’t _practice?_ ” He could just see a flash of blue and gold as someone moved about the room beneath him. 

A full-throated laugh met him at that—Elsie, it had to be. “Babyheart, who taught you how to fight? Ain’t you runnin’ late, anyways? Come down here and pay your respects.”

Cor groaned. “Regis is always late,” he said, but he pulled back the bar to the trap door. There was no arguing with Elsie. He scooped up the leather bag in one arm, shoved his sword under his armpit, and kicked open the trap door. It collapsed with a bang, making the women in the room below screech.

“Cor Leonis!”

“Sorry, ma’am!” He dropped his bag down first, then clambered into the room. It was one of the café’s upstairs _drawing rooms,_ where high-paying clients went to break some of Insomnia’s more easily ignored laws in comfort. Elsie and Justinia were turning the sheets on the large, four poster bed, and Cor dropped his sword with a sigh and joined them to help. He would probably get dragged into cleaning no matter _how_ busy he was. 

“I don’t like this,” Justinia said, as Cor pulled off the pillow covers. “A boy like you, goin’ off to _war?_ With _Niflheim?_ ”

“I can handle myself, you know,” Cor said. It was true. He could even keep up with Clarus Amicitia if he had to, and Clarus was over ten years older than him _and_ the Shield of the prince. He’d been _raised_ to fight, and Cor had, well. He’d always known how to survive, sure, but he hadn’t picked up a sword until he was twelve. But when he had—It was like discovering a part of himself he’d never known was missing before. Even now, he could feel his arm aching, like it _hurt_ without the weight of the blade to make it complete.

“The army’s a good opportunity,” Elsie was saying. “Three meals a day, a pension, a uniform for the girls to fawn over.” She winked at Cor, who rolled his eyes. “Or boys, I guess. Let us know when you decide, babyheart.”

“I’m _fifteen._ ”

“Oh, yes, ancient,” said Elsie, who was only twenty-two. “I’m just sayin,’ our Cor could come home with medals if he’s lucky.”

“Or a coffin,” said Justinia. Elsie kicked her.

Cor grinned at them. “Don’t worry, Justinia,” he said. “I promise, when this is done? They’ll have a _name_ for me.” He held up a hand as though spelling it out in the air. “Cor, the—“

“Big-headed,” Elsie said.

“Stubborn.”

“Most Likely to Fight _Himself._ ”

Cor threw a pile of dirty sheets at Justinia, who smirked at him. “See if I send _you_ anything from Accordo,” he said. “I’ll buy Luci that sash with the herons on it, and _you’ll_ get a letter full of _dirt—_ ” He ducked when Justinia lunged at him, and grabbed his sword and bag before she could hold them hostage. 

“Goodbye, ladies,” he said, with a bow. Elsie ran for him, babbling protests, but he was already strolling down the stairs, whistling one of the tunes the owner of the cafe _definitely_ didn’t like to hear him repeat.

And stopped.

The first floor of the café, which had, until Cor’s arrival, been a flurry of activity, fell into shocked stillness. The owner, Mrs. Polonia, halted with her hands hovering over a two-tiered cake. The other girls on shift, Yulie, Alex, and Sofia, looked up from where they were hanging black ribbons from the ceiling. A black box sat on the countertop, tied with a white ribbon, and the few customers that were there smiled at Cor like he was the punchline to a joke they weren’t expecting.

“Gods _damn_ it!” Alex said, stamping her foot on her stool. 

“Well, there goes the surprise,” said Sofia. “I _told_ you Cor would ruin it.”

Cor stared at them, trying to figure out what he’d ruined. Was it someone’s birthday? Was it a customer appreciation day? Did Mrs. Pol finally pay off the lease? He looked to the owner, who adjusted the tilt of her massive, deep red hair and gestured to the cake. 

“Oh well,” she said. “Come here, boy, and let’s see you off.”

Cor looked from her, to the cake, to the ribbons, and then whirled around to see Justinia and Elsie standing on the top of the steps behind him.

“ _Astrals,_ ” he said. “I love you guys.”

 

\---

 

“I _hate_ him,” Clarus Amicitia said, climbing off the back of his motorcycle with the air of a man on the verge of committing a full-scale murder. He took a moment to untie his hair, which hung loose to his shoulders, before he strode to the door of the small, brightly painted house on the corner of the market district. 

“Regis.” He slammed a fist on the door. “Lucis. _Caelum._ ”

He could hear distant cursing, a soft thump of footsteps, then silence. He was about to knock again when the door swung open, making him tip forward for half a step, and dark eyes peered out at him from the gloom. 

“Clarus!” Regis, Prince of Lucis and dead man walking, leaned against the door and smiled. He was wearing an open silk robe and little else, and his hair was rumpled and finger-combed. “Good to see you. Please go away.”

Clarus shoved a foot in the door before it could slam shut. “Reg,” he said. “You were supposed to see the king half an _hour_ ago.”

Regis shrugged, a languid movement that made Clarus want to drag him off to the Citadel by his ears. “Yes, but I didn’t. So now I don’t have to.” He gripped the door tighter. “Now, if you don’t mind, I am currently spending time with the _love_ of my _life—_ ”

“Hey, Clarus,” called a voice from within. Clarus sighed. 

“Hello, Aulea.” He shoved at the door with his shoulder, and pushed past a cursing and red-faced Regis. “Sorry, Reg. But we’re wheels up in thirty, and the king wants to make sure his son makes it to the front on _time._ ”

“Really?” Regis’ voice dripped with venom. “Was _that_ what he called me?”

“Regis,” Aulea and Clarus said, in chorus. The prince stepped out of his robe, and Clarus quickly turned aside. 

“Don’t take it out on _me,_ ” Clarus said. “Look, Reg. I _know_ you want this. You’re proud of your—“ he heard Regis lock himself in the bathroom, and suppressed a moan of frustration. “Proud of your duty as prince. It’s one of the things I like about you. One of the only things, right _now._ ” 

Aulea, quickly tying a robe around her waist, gave Clarus a sympathetic look as he went to the bathroom door.

“Don’t let this business with your father get in the way of what you owe to Lucis,” he said. 

Inside the bathroom, a tap turned on, and there was a rustle of clothes being dragged across tile.

“Your Highness,” Clarus said, pleading. 

“I heard you.” Regis’ voice was lower, more reserved. “Are the others there?”

“Weskham and Cid are bringing the Regalia to the plaza,” Clarus said, trying not to let his relief show. “The kid’s on the way.”

Regis opened the door to the bathroom at last, wearing his black Crownsguard vest, shirt, and dress pants. “Help me with the cloak, would you?”

He didn’t _need_ the help, not really, but it wasn’t about that. It was a reminder: Regis’ quiet way of testing the strength of Clarus’ loyalty, his willingness to serve. He didn’t try it with the others—Even Weskham, who would do anything for him, remained at arms’ length—but with Clarus he was always pushing, always asking for a confirmation of his vows. 

Clarus stepped close to his prince, and carefully fitted the useless gold clasp of his cloak to his shoulder. Regis watched him as he straightened the braid at his arms, the hang of the cloth, and as always, Clarus felt the twist of something warm and oddly familiar stir in his chest. Regis could be cold, at times, and stubborn as hell, but he understood _duty_ better than an Amicitia. He had the makings of the sort of king that Shields _prayed_ for.

Clarus drew back, and watched as Regis moved to Aulea’s side, bending down to kiss her on the cheek.

“Think about it,” he said. Aulea only smiled and ran a hand over his messy hair. Clarus left them to it, and left the darkness of Aulea’s home to the blazing sun of an Insomnian summer.

“Want to tell me what that was about?” he asked, when Regis climbed on the back of the bike. His eyes were bright, and he had a faint flush to his cheeks.

“Not precisely,” Regis said. “But you’ll wear me down. You know Aulea and I are… ah. Taking a break?”

Clarus nodded. Aulea and Regis were both logical to a fault, at times. They both decided that it would be best to wait until _after_ Regis returned from the war to see if what feelings they had for each other—tied up as they were in years of friendship and the glaring disapproval of the king—could endure the time and distance. 

“Well.” Regis’ voice went hollow as he strapped on his helmet. “If it works out, after all this? I asked Aulea to marry me.”

The strange, choked-off sound that Clarus made was drowned out in the roar of the bike engine. 

“Good for you,” he said, as they veered off into the street. “Couldn’t be happier.”

 

\---

 

Cid Sophiar draped his legs over the driver’s side door of Prince Regis’ brand new car, tipping cigarette ash into a tray between him and the aggrieved stare of Weskham Armaugh. 

“Nice day, ain’t it,” he said, blowing out smoke.

“If you scrape the paint,” Weskham said, in his deep, exasperated baritone, “then the prince will leave you behind in Hammerhead.”

“You don’t say?” Cid said, flashing the prince’s advisor a shit-eating grin. “Back at Hammerhead? Where I’m likely to run into that _nice_ young thing with the leather up to here and the—“ He cackled as Weskham reached over to slap him on the back of the head, and dropped the cigarette in his lap. “Shit! Shit, Weskham, the hell d’you—“

Weskham scrambled over, batting at Cid’s lap in a desperate attempt to get at the cigarette before it burned a hole through his jeans. Cid, meanwhile, was trying to jump _out_ of his jeans, and the Regalia rocked as the two men fell to the side of the door, lost in a tangle of flailing limbs and bellowed curses. 

“Oh,” said a light, cracking voice behind them. “Should I… come back later?”

Cid turned over Weskham’s still wriggling body to see Cor Leonis standing at the back of the Regalia, smirking at them from under a soft, slightly squashed hat.

“Don’t _you_ clean up nice,” Cid said. “You’re in the back seat, kid. Right between Clarus and Regis, who ain’t here, as fuckin’ usual.”

“Got it!” Weskham shouted, holding up the squashed cigarette like a trophy. Cor threw his bag in the trunk and hopped over the back door, settling in the center of the backseat with his sword between his knees. 

“The hat looks new,” Weskham said, when his prowess at retrieving lit cigarette butts didn’t gain the applause he was expecting. Cor preened. 

“Right?” He tipped it forward a little. “The… my housemates got it for me.”

Cid opened his mouth to say something about his housemates leaving him some room to grow, but Weskham silenced him with a well-timed scowl. “Looks good,” he said at last.

“You might be the only one of us who is properly outfitted,” Weskham said. “The prince—“

A whining roar in the distance grew louder, masking whatever Weskham had to say in a sputter of an engine and the squeal of tires on asphalt. Clarus Amicitia parked his bike in a space reserved for city employees, and pulled off his helmet. His brown hair flew about his face in the warm summer breeze.

“Like a fucking hair commercial,” Cid grumbled. Cor laughed. 

“What’s so funny, rookie?” Clarus asked, grinning wickedly at Cor. “Don’t forget, _you’re_ the lowest ranked soldier on the ladder, here. Show some respect.”

“I’ll show it when you’ve earned some,” Cor said. He ruined the effect by blushing, but Cid and Weskham had to give him credit for effort. Clarus shook his head and stepped into the backseat, nudging Cor with his shoulder. Regis, taking pains to fix his hair, climbed in on his other side.

“Took your sweet time,” Cid said. Regis didn’t respond, but he didn’t expect him to. They all knew that Regis had his reasons for being late, even if it _did_ make Clarus madder than a behemoth in a heatwave. He turned the key to the Regalia in the ignition, and sighed in delight at the purr of the engine.

Weskham rolled his eyes. “I swear, you’d make love to this car if you had the chance.”

“Shh,” Cid said, rubbing the side of the Regalia with a comforting hand. “Don’t you listen, baby. I’ll treat you _real_ nice.”

“I honestly don’t know if I can _be_ more disturbed,” Regis drawled. He tugged Cor’s hat down over his eyes, and the younger man ducked away from him. “Very sharp, Leonis.”

“Enough sweet-talk,” Clarus said. He tapped Cid on the shoulder. “Are you going to feel up the Regalia, Cid, or are we going to go beat the shit out of the Empire?”

Cid grinned, all teeth, and met the fierce gazes of his companions. “Aw, hell,” he said, stepping on the gas. “Let’s give it a shot.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regis and co arrive at their first assignment. Cor learns what it means to be the rookie in the prince's retinue.

The first scheduled stop in Prince Regis’ tour of duty was just north of Hammerhead, thirty miles within the magical wall maintained by the king. Clarus figured the king was being careful—this _was_ Regis’ first time in combat—but the prince took it as a personal insult, a sign that he wasn’t _good_ enough to be sent directly to the front. He watched the flickering panels of the Wall flash by them as Cid gentled the Regalia along the road out of Insomnia.

“Wall’s getting smaller every year,” Regis said. At the edge of the barrier, fire licked along the Wall as the Empire waged one of its daily aerial assaults. The Wall was brighter, there, and Clarus wondered if the king could feel each strike, every missile that landed. He wondered if Regis would feel it, too, one day. Hopefully, if all went well here, he wouldn’t have to.

“I can’t believe they’re making us sit around,” Cor said. He was holding his hat down with both hands, and his sword kept knocking into his shoulder. “Don’t they _need_ soldiers?”

“Of course,” said Weskham. “But it does no good to rush in unprepared.”

Cor muttered under his breath, and Weskham raised both eyebrows. 

“Always worked for me,” Cor said, a little louder.

Clarus sighed. He hoped Weskham and Cid would be enough to keep Cor in line. He couldn’t afford to split his attention between Regis and a reckless kid: Cor might have been a prodigy with a blade, but he hadn’t fought anyone who wanted to _kill_ him before. It was something that worried Cid in particular, and the man had pulled Clarus aside a few weeks prior to suggest they leave Cor behind in the city.

 _That_ went down as well as could be expected.

The Lucian base by Hammerhead was a series of repurposed buildings that once belonged to the local Hunter Headquarters, and lines of tents and hastily constructed shacks showed that the army was preparing for a long stay. Regis half stood in his seat when they came into view, and Weskham leaned over his chair to push him down.

“Here comes the best part of the war, boys,” Cid said, as he parked the Regalia under a secure awning. “Hurry up and wait.”

 _Hurry,_ it seemed, was a relative term. Cid took a good ten minutes just to make sure the Regalia hadn’t been scratched on their way there, then Cor forgot his hat, then Regis remembered that he needed to check his _goddamned hair_. By the time Clarus and Weskham dragged the rest of their group to the large building in the center of camp, they were far past reasonably late and well into fucking screwed.

The captain in charge of receiving them was less than pleased. He spoke to Regis like one would to a child, which made Regis go stony and pale, and introduced them to a string of officers who would be in charge of various operations beyond the wall. Clarus could barely catch their names, but one sergeant, Augustus, stopped before Cor and took in the insignia on his fatigues.

The sergeant nodded to Cor, who stood to attention like a small, nervous puppy facing down a mastiff. “Private.”

“Yes sir.”

“Report to the duty roster for work detail once you’re done here.”

Cor’s gaze flicked to Regis for the merest fraction of a second. “Yes, sir.”

The prince, still receiving his briefing notes from the captain, looked their way. A fine line creased his brow, and his lips thinned dangerously—Clarus could see him debating whether to intervene. Technically, Regis had superiority as the head of their Crownsguard special forces group. However, Cor _was_ also an enlisted soldier in the military, and Regis couldn’t afford to start grievances with the officers at the front over minor matters. He had to pick his battles, which meant that in this, Regis would have to bend.

Clarus watched Regis come to this conclusion in the course of a few seconds, and then turn back to the captain as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. 

Cor waved them away after the briefing, smiling wide with anxious excitement. “I’ll be back in time to set up camp,” he promised, and ran off, positively _skipping_ in the dry dust of Leide.

“Gods,” Weskham said, watching him go. “I feel old.”

“You _are_ old,” Cid said, tapping a crushed box of cigarettes on his palm. “Come on, paw-paw, leave the hard work to the kids.” He stomped off towards the campsite, snickering as Weskham followed him with the firm assertion that thirty-seven was practically a man’s _prime._

Four hours later, Weskham had thrown together one of his unfortunate _flavor combinations_ that only Regis could swallow down, Cid was waxing philosophic about what he wanted to do with his grandpa’s garage after the war, and Clarus and Regis were passing a sharpening stone back and forth between them, running through the blades in the prince’s armiger. It would have been a quiet, easy evening, the sort they’d shared at the Citadel countless times, if it weren’t for the fact that Cor hadn’t returned. 

“Shit,” Cid said, at last. “This’s gone on long enough. Who’s goin’ after him?”

Clarus grunted and heaved himself out of his seat, but Regis was already up. His back was to the fire, and as he rolled up his sleeves, the firelight cast the wiry muscles of his arms into soft curves and shifting shadow. His face was turned aside, but Clarus recognized the tightening of his jaw that heralded one of Regis’ famous flares of temper.

“Don’t kill anyone, your Highness,” he warned. 

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Regis said. He smiled back at him, nothing more than a knife-edge in the dark, and dropped down from the platform.

 

\---

 

Regis found Cor in the barracks showers, scrubbing down the tile on his hands and knees. Even in the dim light of his travel lamp, Regis could tell that Cor’s face was crimson to the ears. The showers were only halfway clean and looked like they hadn’t been hosed down in months: This was just the sort of impossible task a vindictive superior would give a new recruit they wanted to saddle with punishment detail. It was also a slight on Regis: The commander might as well be telling him that while _he_ might have the title and the noble privilege that excluded him from the rank and file, he wasn’t _truly_ in charge. 

Regis tapped on a mirror, and Cor paused.

“Oh. Your Highness.” His face turned, if anything, a deeper red. It could have been amusing under a different circumstance, but all Regis could feel was anger, a cold, tight lump at the base of his throat.

“I’m overriding your orders,” Regis said. “Report back to the tent, Leonis.”

Cor flexed fingers scalded raw with soapy water. “Your Highness,” he said again. “They said I had to—“

“I’m sure I know what they said.” Regis snapped. “I need you at camp.”

Cor sat up, and rolled out the kinks in a back that had been bent for more than half the afternoon. “Sir,” he said, cautiously.  
“Regis.”

He didn’t even twitch. Regis held down a sigh. Cor could be as stubborn as _he_ was when the bit was between his teeth. “If I don’t finish this, they’ll take it as… They’ll think I’m not good enough, or I don’t care enough, to do the job. That’ll reflect on _you._ I saw it with the girls, back home. Someone breaks the law, or takes someone out of the café and it gets back to Mrs. Pol, it’s her the city guard talks to.”

“You aren’t comparing me to the Madam of a _brothel,_ are you?” Regis asked, amusement cutting through the rage. Cor’s eyes widened. 

“No! No. I mean. I just mean that…”

Regis shrugged. “I know what you mean, Cor. It doesn’t matter. I’ve been dealing with attempts on my _good name_ since I was old enough to write.”

“It matters to me.” Cor’s voice was soft. Regis stared at him, a young man kneeling redfaced in the middle of a drenched tile floor, and let out a weary sigh. 

“Alright,” he said. He tied back his sleeves and got to his knees at Cor’s side. “If you insist.”

Cor watched in open-mouthed silence as Regis fished a second rag out of the bucket of grimy water and wrung it out over the floor. “Well, Leonis?”

“N-nothing,” Cor said, and turned to his own rag. A smile threatened to tug at his lips, and his eyes were bright. “Regis.”

They came back to camp two hours later, their legs soaked and hands cracking in angry red lines. Regis had stolen Cor’s hat, and Cor was laughing softly, kicking up dust as the two of them jostled each other on the way up the platform.

“Please,” Regis said, as he collapsed on the ground next to Clarus, “tell me Weskham remembered to pack the wine.”

"Not until after the first battle, Reggie,” Cid said, and blew a kiss at Regis’ impressive glare. Clarus rubbed the prince’s shoulders, in slow, tight circles, and Regis closed his eyes.

“See, Cid?” he said. “ _Clarus_ knows how to treat royalty.” Clarus gave him a long, dry look, lifted his hand, and retreated to the tent. Cid and Cor burst into laughter, and Regis, still lying on his stomach, threatened them both with exile. 

Weskham joined Clarus in the tent, kicking out his bedroll as though he _hadn’t_ spent thirty years of his life on the feather mattresses of the Citadel. “No harm done, it seems,” he said. Clarus discreetly left space for Cid next to Weskham, and lay back on his arms. 

“Maybe,” he said. “If there’s any trouble, I don’t trust either of them to speak up. You know Regis.”

He could almost _hear_ the stretch of Weskham’s smile. “Yes,” he said. “I do.”

They lay in silence, listening to the chaos unfolding by the campfire, until sleep took them. Clarus woke only once, when he felt Cor’s body being rolled away from his side to make room for Regis, who fell unsteadily onto the blankets next to him. He opened his eyes partway to find Regis watching him, his face unreadable in the darkness of early morning. Unthinking, Clarus raised a hand to him, and the prince gently pushed it down.

“Back to sleep, Clarus,” he said, and Clarus, as always, dutifully obeyed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of the sternest, gruffest guy I know, who may or may not have accidentally set a goat on his superior officer's tent.

The wind that rolled across the barren plains south of the Wall was heavy with the ghost of a rain that would never come. Cid was used to this wind, used to the feel of grit and dust clinging to clammy skin. Used to the prickle of wild sage and the acidic smell of stone baking in the ever-present heat. His grandfather once said that the Sophiars had the dust of Leide in their bones, and now, Cid couldn’t help but think that he might’ve been right. Every time he entered the city, it was like he was dragging the skin of the desert along behind him. 

Weskham liked that about Cid, Astrals alone knew why. Weskham was born to stone walls and marble floors, and he’d taken on his duty with the somber grace of any public servant. But that was where it ended. He picked up bits and pieces of other lives to pad the edges of his own, discarding hobbies on a whim only to take up a new one a minute later. For such a changeable man, he appreciated the stolid, single-minded approach Cid took to life.

Cid was probably the only hobby Weskham had yet to abandon.

“This place is _perfect,_ ” Weskham shouted. He poked his head out from behind an outcropping of rock. He’d lugged along a series of unsettling canisters with him on their way to patrol, and was arranging them in the dust with the air of an engineer. “I’d give it a week, and we’ll be in business.”

Cid leaned over the older man, one hand on his shoulder, and clicked his tongue. “Dunno about y’all,” he said, “but I thought makin’ moonshine was illegal.”

“It isn’t _moonshine,_ my dear,” Weskham said. “ _This_ is an art. Besides, Corporal Khun has a distillery going in his tent, and I want to run that uncultured little _swine_ out of business.”

He had a point. The corporal was one of a long line of folks who took one look at the prince, a young man who was made an officer by virtue of his birth, and made it their goal in life to make Regis’ time at camp a misery. Regis didn’t notice, of course, which only made them more determined. Cid and Clarus had a bet going on which officer was liable to break first. Regis wasn’t even on the list. 

Neither was Cor, but that was because the boy was nothing more than a tightly-wound spring of pent-up energy about to snap. Cid had a daughter his age, living at Hammerhead with his parents, but even in little Candy’s most intense fits of anger, he knew the girl had a cool logic to balance herself out. Cor was something else. It probably came from being a genius with the sword—All the energy his brain was supposed to use in calming the hell down went right into his sword arm instead. 

“Oh. Oh no.”

Cid leaned further on Weskham, and ran a pale, weather-worn hand over his smooth brown shoulder. “Don’t worry none,” he said. “You ain’t done this before. Somethin’s bound to go wrong.”

“Use your _eyes,_ Cid,” Weskham said, in a tight voice. Cid blinked and looked down, and blinked again. 

“Hell,” he said, after a long minute had passed.

“I think we should leave the distillery for tomorrow,” Weskham whispered. He reached his arms into a hollow between the stones, and carefully, _carefully,_ drew out what lay within.

 

\---

 

If Cor Leonis was going to make a name for himself, it wasn’t going to be anything like his grand, impossible daydreams: No Cor the Unbeatable, Cor the Relentless, Cor the Immortal. No, he was Cor, the Fifth Wheel, the dejected kid brother of legends, cursed with the terrible knowledge that they were, all of them, hopeless and single-minded as a lovestruck chocobo. 

He, Clarus, and Regis had been given the task of mapping out their route to the wall, which meant, for once, that Cor had the entire backseat to himself. Which would have been fine if it weren’t for the fact that Regis kept looking at that _damn_ letter he’d received from Aulea in the capital, and if Clarus didn’t keep staring after Regis, practically trembling with concern. 

In Cor’s opinion, love was something that happened to other people. Lately, it seemed to be happening to _everyone._ Even Weskham, who Cor always thought was supposed to be the epitome of class, spent a good five minutes mooning over Cid’s knuckles, talking about how _calloused_ they were. 

“I don’t deserve her,” Regis said, folding up the letter yet again and slipping it into his vest pocket. Clarus’ ears were tinged with red, and his fingers clenched on the wheel. 

“I said—“

“I heard you the last three times,” Clarus said. Regis frowned slightly.

“You’re supposed to say, _Yes, Regis, you do,_ ” He drawled. Cor snorted, and hurriedly tried to cover it as a cough. 

Clarus gave Regis a long, hard look, then went back to the empty road before them. Regis scoffed and leaned back in his seat. 

“It’s not like you’re exclusive, Reg,” Cor said, and Regis turned a withering glare his way. “I… well. Girls are allowed, right? To date whoever? You’re not going _steady_.”

“What do _you_ know about going _steady,_ Cor?” Regis waved a hand. “You’re twelve.”

“ _Fifteen._ And Daisy has a girl she sees on the regular.” Clarus and Regis didn’t bother asking which adopted sister, aunt, or godmother Daisy was. The number of women in Cor’s life astounded them: The last of his letters home was three pages long, because he knew that if he mentioned one auntie and left out another, he’d never hear the end of it. 

“It looks like this is the route,” Clarus said, gesturing to a dirt road that laced its way to the edge of the Wall. “We’ll have to draw up a report. Then it’s you and me on the perimeter, Regis. And I swear to the Six, if I have to hear you wax _poetic_ about Aulea’s _eyes…_ ”

“What sort of poetry _would_ you like?” Regis asked. Cor grinned. “An ode to _your_ flowing hair?”

“A sonnet about his biceps,” Cor suggested. 

“Oh, no,” Regis said. “Not a sonnet. Clarus is _special._ He needs a limerick about his—“

“Don’t. Start.” 

“Mouth,” Regis finished. 

Clarus swerved the car around in a sharp U-turn that had Regis and Cor clinging to the side of their seats.

“You,” Regis said, as Clarus gunned the gas towards camp, “have no romance in your _soul._ ”

“How well you know me.”

 

\---

 

Cor tripped up the slope towards their tent, humming tunelessly under his breath. Now that Regis and Clarus were off with the captain, discussing their path to the Wall, he was finally, _finally_ close to seeing action. _Real_ action, not fighting off skinny, withered creatures that skittered among the brush in the desert and scrabbled over rock. _Niflheim._ He thought of the bright bursts of gunfire against the magical barrier, and his hand instinctively tightened on the hilt of his sword. When it happened, when he finally made it to the front lines... Then he'd know if he was _good_ enough. 

He climbed up onto the platform where the tent was set up, and saw Cid and Weskham there, staring moodily into their tea. “Found a way to the Wall,” he said, with a toothy grin. Cid grunted. Weskham said nothing. Cor shrugged and set his sword down next to the tent. 

“Don’t go in,” Weskham warned. Cor, his hand already on the zipper of the tent door, turned to ask him what he meant, only to have his hand knocked downward by a large, strangely _fluffy_ ball of—

He shrieked as the tent collapsed on top of him, poles and netting tangling in his legs and over his chest. He tried to rise, but whatever had struck his hand hit him heavily in the belly, then bounced up to fix him with the most hateful glare he had ever encountered.

The dark-feathered, rotund baby chocobo perched on Cor’s chest extended stubby wings and let out a chirp of pure evil.

“Don’t let it leave the camp!” Cid shouted, but it was far, far too late.

 

\---

 

Clarus, Regis, Cid and Weskham stood on the edge of their campsite, surveying the damage.

“So you’re saying,” Regis said, “that neither of you have _any_ idea what caused this?”

Cid spat. Before him, the careful lines of tents were a chaos of debris and smoking wreckage. Fires still burned at the edge of camp, and the man in charge of the base had long, thin scratches trailing down his face and arms as he bellowed rage into the night.

“Not a clue,” Cid said.

“Very unusual,” said Weskham.

“I’m never gonna _look_ at a chocobo again,” Cor groaned from the fire, where he was cleaning his own scratches out. 

“Chocobo?” Clarus asked. He and Regis turned to Cid and Weskham, eerily in sync, brows raised in innocent concern.

“It’s trauma,” Weskham said, smoothly. “Poor boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Cor grumbled and grabbed a roll of gauze from the armiger. In the darkness beyond the camp, there came a faint fluttering of wings, and a high, trilling _kweh_ of glorious triumph.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way I see it, if Stand by Me and Cup Noodles exist in this universe, so too does Queen.

The morning they were to head out to the border of the Wall, Clarus rose, ate, and dressed well before dawn. Then he staggered back in to the tent, stole Cor’s blanket, and waited out the sun. He planned on being ready to break down camp in time to be on the road by daybreak, but when he opened his eyes again, sunlight had turned the tent a faint green, most of the bedrolls were cleared out, and he was alone with the prince. 

Regis cursed impressively.

“Need help with that, Reg?” Clarus asked, listening to the scattered hopping sounds that he’d come to recognize as Regis trying to either tug on or _off_ his binder. Apparently, even princes who could get their clothes tailor-made by professionals at the Citadel were cursed with the same awkward wriggle of the countless souls who tried to shove their legs in skinny jeans that should not, through the laws of physics, actually fit. 

There was a flap of fabric on tarp, and Regis kicked the binder to the other end of the tent. 

“Good fucking riddance,” he said.

“You didn’t wear that all _night?_ ” Clarus asked, rolling over. His mind rushed to the evening he’d been woken by a call on his home phone and a sarcastic drawl confirming that yes, bandages _were_ a shitty idea; And coincidentally, the crown prince may have cracked a rib and needed a stolen elixir before his parents came home. Their teen years had been a time of fits and starts, with Regis certain that he could manage on his own, the King certain he couldn’t, and the Queen hovering in the background with a desperate look and armfuls of carefully researched resources.

“My mother’s still alive, Clarus,” Regis said, shrugging his uniform shirt on over a fitted tank top. “I’ll thank you not to take her place just yet.” 

“You see her in this tent?” 

Regis turned a half-lidded gaze to his Shield, who stiffened with an unexpected chill.

“I see a likeness.”

“Enough flirting, my dears,” Weskham said, pushing through the tent flap in a whirl of dreadlocks and silver clasps. “Cid’s three minutes from making love to the Regalia if you take any longer. I’m a jealous man: I may not recover.”

Regis grimaced. “That’s an image. Thank you, Weskham.”

“Any time, Highness.” 

When they were alone again, Regis fixed Clarus with that same low stare as before, and let his hands drop from his half-buttoned shirt. Clarus reflexively obeyed the unspoken order and shuffled over, doing up the buttons for him. Their foreheads were close enough to touch, and Regis bent down, his nose brushing Clarus’. 

“What do you think, Clar?” he asked, in a quiet voice. Clarus didn’t have to guess at what Regis meant.

“It can’t be different from going on patrol,” he said. His hands slowed, allowing Regis time to think. The prince sighed, and the warmth of his breath brought a flush to Clarus’ cheeks. 

“Sabreclaws don’t look like human beings,” Regis whispered. “I worry for Cor. He’s young, it’s his first battle…”

“Nothing like you, huh, Reg?” Clarus left the top button undone, and startled at the touch of Regis’ hands on his. The prince’s thumb brushed along the ridge of his knuckles. 

“Clarus. Aulea and I were talking, before, and she said—“

“If you two don’t get out now,” shouted Cor, from outside, “I’m gonna break down the tent with you _in_ it!”

Clarus pulled back, thankful for Cor’s intervention. The mention of Aulea had given him a sour, twisting feeling which he didn’t care to examine. He _liked_ Aulea. He was _glad_ she and Regis seemed to have some affection for each other, for all that they treated their relationship like a movie they could pause and come back to with no repercussions. He shook out the burn of Regis’ hands on his skin and stepped out of the tent, blinking in the blinding sunlight of their first day at war. 

 

\---

 

“Y’all get a load of that sound system?” Cid positively purred as he patted the controls of the Regalia’s radio. Weskham gave him a wounded look, and Regis rolled his eyes. 

They’d driven through the Wall an hour ago, and had yet to run into any Niflheim patrols. It was almost, as Cor kept saying, a disappointment.

“I wanted to take apart some of those new soldiers they have,” Cor said, leaning over Regis’ lap in his excitement. “Those MTs. I hear they aren’t even _human,_ just fancy machines. I hear—“

“ _I_ hear yappin,” Cid growled, changing the station to the top forty channel, “when I should be hearin’ my baby sing to me.”

“That’s it,” Weskham said. “Now I _am_ jealous. Of a car. Let it be known, on this day, that Weskham Armaugh is fighting for the love of his life with a hunk of machinery.”

“Hunk of—!” Cid gasped. 

“Imperials!” Cor shouted, before a full-scale war could break out in the front seat. He rose to his feet, leaning against the back of Weskham’s seat. “Above us!”

Clarus craned his neck. Overhead, one of the black iron ships of Niflheim hovered over the treeline, the red fire of its engine staining the grass red. Cid pulled the Regalia over and made to turn off the engine, but Regis stopped him. 

“Turn up the radio, Cid,” Regis said. Their resident mechanic obliged. Above them, the MT carrier ship roared as it slowly lowered its bay doors. Clarus summoned his sword, but stopped when the radio made the Regalia tremble with the dulcet tones of Queen. Regis gripped his chin. The prince was grinning, mouthing along with the words. 

_Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a real good time…_

His fingers ran across Clarus’ lips for the merest fraction of a second. Then there was a flash of light, and Regis’ sword was in the air, flying straight and true to the heart of a banner-wielding MT. He warped around the hilt, and his weight dragged the sword down the body of the MT length-wise. 

_I feel ali-i-i-ive…_

The MT sputtered and screamed like a bird of prey falling from a clear sky, and Regis warped to the ground, rolling to his feet. 

“Come on, boys!” he shouted. 

_Don’t stop me now…_

Clarus was already running. He slid to Regis’ right—his weak spot, thanks to the bum leg that always seemed to accompany the overuse of Lucian magic—and swung his glaive wide, severing a line of MTs at the knees. He could barely hear the music over the scream of wires and the guttural cries of humanoid soldiers, but Regis was definitely singing along under his breath. The prince wielded his sword with a mechanical manner, using strong, start-and-stop movements that ran contrary to the chaotic jerking of Niflheim’s newest fighting force. He shattered one of his opponent’s helmets, but the resulting mess was too thick with black oil and electrical fire to see what lay beneath the MT’s green masks and fiery eyes. Weskham was at their backs, laying the enemy low with precise, devastating shots, and Cid was in the thick of the fight, darting in with his spear drawn. Cor appeared at Regis’ left, slicing through the wiring at an MT soldier’s neck. 

“Nice!” Regis shouted. Cor didn’t respond. Clarus nudged Regis with an arm and pointed to the huddle of swordsmen Cor was fighting towards. There were too many of them, and they looked to be in a loose formation. Regis nodded, and Cor ducked down. 

“ _I’ll make a supersonic man out of you,_ ” Regis whispered, as he placed a foot on Clarus’ back. He ran up onto his shoulder and warped into the center of the swarm of MTs, raining devastation down upon them. Clarus followed.

By the time the dust settled, the radio was belting out a commercial for a new Chocobo ranch, Cid was nursing an injury on his arm, and Regis was breathing hard, leaning on his sword for balance. Clarus slapped his hand and pushed him gently.

“You were brilliant, Regis,” he said.

“Not at all,” Regis said. His eyes shone with battle fever. “We’re only as good as our allies—“

A soft, coughing sound caught their attention, and they turned. Cor was holding onto a stone with one hand, legs trembling, retching out most of what he’d eaten since that morning. Clarus shifted, but Regis held a hand up, and walked over to their younger companion. The prince leaned against the stone and laid a hand on Cor’s forehead, talking softly. Cor’s legs buckled, and Regis caught him as he fell to his knees. 

Cid turned off the radio.

“—my lead,” Clarus could hear Regis say, in the voice he reserved for Aulea, or for those quiet moments when he and Clarus were alone. He took Cor’s right hand and placed it on his chest, and let out an exaggerated breath. “In?”

Cor struggled to match his breathing. After a minute or two of this, Regis helped him to his feet again, and gave Clarus, Weskham, and Cid a warning look. They all took his meaning, and turned aside as Regis lead Cor back to the car.

“Not bad for our first fight,” Cid said, dusting his hands off before he fell into the front seat. 

“Can’t complain,” Weskham said. “Where to, Highness?”

“If you can find me a motel, Weskham,” Regis said, “and we can break open that wine, I will knight you here and now.”

“I’m a bit higher ranked than a knight already, Highness,” Weskham said.

“You’ll be knighted and like it, Sir Armaugh,” Regis snapped, but without any real vitriol. He sat next to Clarus this time, and kept a hand on Cor’s back. Cor was silent, slightly green at the lips and wretchedly pale. When Clarus caught Regis’ eye, he saw that the prince, for all that he was over five years Cor’s senior, was doing little better. His hand shook as he pushed damp bangs from his forehead. 

Tentatively, Clarus took his free hand. Regis attempted a sardonic smile, but there was real gratitude in his eyes. 

Clarus kept his grip loose, just in case, but Regis didn’t let go. They stayed that way for the rest of the drive, Regis' hand gripped tight in his, dark eyes scanning the horizon, searching for the shadow of enemy ships that never came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been... seeing some recurring things re: binding pop up lately, and just wanted to throw in my two cents that if you want to bind your chest? Ace bandages are NOT IDEAL AT ALL. (Let's just say I was once 13, desperate, very ill-informed, and OUCH.) 
> 
> anyways, PSA over!
> 
> Next stop in the road trip: Regis breaks out the wine.


End file.
